“And the locket?”
“My wife has it somewhere, I believe.”
Colville gave an impatient laugh. For the peaceful air of Farlingford had failed to temper that spirit of energy and enterprise which he had acquired in cities—in Paris, most likely. He had no tolerance for quiet ways and a slow, sure progress, such as countrymen seek, who are so leisurely that the years slide past and death surprises them before they have done anything in the world but attend to its daily demand for a passing effort.
“Ah!” he cried, “but all that must be looked into if we are to do anything for this young fellow. You will find the Marquis anxious to be up and doing at once. You go so slowly in Farlingford, Captain. The world is hurrying on and this chance will be gone past before we are ready. Let us get these small proofs of identity collected together as soon as possible. Let us find that locket. But do not force it open. Give it to me as it is. Let us find the papers.”
“There are no papers,” interrupted Captain Clubbe, with a calm deliberation quite untouched by his companion’s hurry.
“No papers?”
“No; for Frenchman burnt them before my eyes.”
Dormer Colville meditated for a moment in silence. Although his manner was quick, he was perhaps as deliberate in his choice of a question as was Captain Clubbe in answering it.
“Why did he do that? Did he know who he was? Did he ever say anything to you about his former life—his childhood—his recollections of France?”
“He was not a man to say much,” answered Clubbe, himself no man to repeat much.